Anything for a Friend
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: But with friends like these . . .


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Note: **It always puzzled me that in the episode "The Crystal Duck", Teddy imposes on Mark's hospitality despite being "paid up through the end of the month" at his rooming house. The impression is that he's hiding out from his PO's goons, but the imposition obviously began before Teddy got into trouble with them. I wrote a story called "A Friend of Mine", posted last December, which tried to shed some light on Teddy's motives but, really, it might be best to have Teddy explain it himself . . .

**Anything for a Friend**

by L.M. Lewis

Teddy Hollins had a routine. Every morning he woke up to his alarm clock and climbed out of bed, ready to get on with his life and achieve what the shrink at SQ called his "personal goals". There'd been seven such days since he'd left the joint. Right now his number one goal was finding a job so his PO, a gorilla named Quinlan, would climb off his back a little.

In the meantime, he had two-hundred dollars, courtesy of the State of California—his earnings from working the laundry up at Quentin. Of course three-quarters of that had already gone to the rent on his current domicile. Another $4.99 he'd paid for the alarm clock, and the remaining $45.01 would soon be just a memory if he continued to eat even semi-regularly.

He ran his fingers through his hair. An alarm clock that cheered a guy up would be a good idea. Maybe one that sounded like a woman. Teddy grinned goofily. The 'Up and At 'Em' _Personal_ Wake-up System . . . though listening to that might make a guy not want to get out of bed at all.

The grin didn't leave his face, even when he'd checked the shelf over his hot-plate and found only a tin of tuna, and a package of peanut-butter crackers left over from the bus ride down to LA. He opened the crackers and munched one thoughtfully. Today was going to be the day. He knew it.

He rustled through the small pile of clothes at the foot of his bed, pulled out a shirt, sniffed it, and gave it a passing grade. It wasn't like you could smell anything besides the grease in most of the joints he'd been visiting. Maybe he'd focus on Italian places today.

A tie and his one and only sport coat completed the ensemble—a man on the make. He looked at his image in the cracked and tarnished mirror hanging slightly crooked over the small sink. He practiced his most engaging smile. He was pretty sure he'd hire himself in a flash, given the chance.

00000

Three Italian restaurants and a hotdog joint later, Teddy's feet were sore. He thought he probably had a blister on one heel. The peanut butter crackers were just a memory. He checked his pocket—three bucks and change, besides the two twenties that were his current life's savings.

He was still pretty sure this was his day, but he thought it wouldn't hurt to have a back-up plan, something that would give him a little more of a cushion than just a pair of Jacksons. He used to know a guy who knew a guy who ran a little low-stakes poker game on Friday nights—friendly, nobody ever got cut-up or nothing like that. Teddy thought a nice friendly poker game was just what he needed to turn his luck around.

He headed for the diner on Fourth Street, not all that far from where he was staying. He'd get some coffee—a guy couldn't really be at his best without a cup of coffee—and see if he couldn't get a line on tonight's game. He wasn't shirking—this was what executive types called "contingency planning".

It was after one by the time he got there, and the place was nearly deserted. He smiled at the waitress, a gum-snapping redhead who looked like she'd have a nice voice for an alarm clock. She didn't return Teddy's look of appreciation.

He edged past her and made his way to a seat at the counter. He'd just flagged down the woman with the pot and scored himself a cup, when he was tapped on the shoulder from behind.

It was a reflex, really, and it'd take more than a week to settle it down. The jump and twist were already less noticeable than they'd been when he first got out. The guy who confronted him when he turned didn't even look surprised. But then he was somebody who probably had his own share of nervous prison habits.

"Hey, Hollins, how's it hangin'? You finally out?"

Teddy relaxed just a bit, but not all the way. This was Vinnie Delgado, who under other circumstances, like in the strict pecking order of South Block, SQ, was a force to be reckoned with. Today, though, he seemed to be in a friendly mood. Teddy did the mental calculation—how recently had he been able to scratch Delgado off his list of worries—and came up with the round figure of six weeks.

"Yeah," he said cheerfully, "Last week. You've been out a month and an half, huh?"

Vinnie seemed pleased to be remembered with such precision. He gave that a nod and slid, uninvited, onto the stool next to Teddy's. He held up one finger and the counter woman hustled over with cup and pot. He'd obviously already established himself as a regular. He tucked his chin and dropped his voice.

"You lookin' for a little action?"

Teddy nodded cautiously. Delgado had not been the middle man he was hoping for, but beggars sometimes had to settle for what they got.

"Well," Vinnie made a face, "You're shit outta luck today, my friend. Jake got picked up on a 330 about a month ago. He had some outstandings, ya know? Looks like he's gonna be out of action for a few months."

Teddy looked politely concerned for a moment, then asked the obvious. "Nobody's picked up the trade?"

"Nobody you wanna know," Vinnie said with a hard smile that said more than that.

This much concern was unexpected from a guy who had a bad reputation even among guys with bad reputations. But Teddy was still mulling that over when Vinnie said something even more surprising.

"Too bad about your old buddy, Mac."

Teddy turned suddenly and looked Delgado straight in the eye. "_Skid_?"

"Yeah," the other man said nonchalantly. "Skid McCormick. You ain't heard?"

Teddy felt his stomach sink. He shook his head nervously.

"Yeah, well, he was a nice guy."

Teddy swallowed hard at the "was" and said, "What happened? Oh, shit, he was gonna start racing again. He said that before he left."

Visions of flaming wrecks blazed up in Teddy's imagination. He'd argued with his old cellie about the dangers of his trade. He'd tried to convince him to take up a safer, quieter line of work—safe-cracking, maybe. Skid had laughed about that.

"He had a wreck," Teddy said with self-convinced certainty.

Delgado was giving him an odd look. "Nah," he said, "nothin' like that—it was the usual, ya know. 'Cept old Mac maybe bit off more than he could chew. He went and heisted a car, only it wasn't just somebody's ride. It was some hotshot prototype model—one of those car-of-the-future things—like you see at an auto show or in a magazine or something."

Teddy's jaw had gone slack.

"He got busted," Delgado said, with the tone of satisfaction that can only come from being the bearer of bad tidings.

"Nah . . . nah—he wouldn't've. Uh-uh. Skid said he was never gonna end up inside again."

"Yeah, well, that's where it gets interesting." Vinnie smiled slyly. "'Cause he didn't."

This time Teddy said nothing.

Vinnie just shrugged. "Listen, I wouldn't have believed it myself except I was _there_—it was just about a month ago."

"You got busted?" Teddy said doubtfully. "How come _you _ain't been revoked?"

Vinnie drew himself up slightly. "It was just a little misunderstanding."

Teddy frowned, considered the timing, and wisely concluded he wouldn't ask Delgado if he'd been the one who'd dropped the dime on Jake's gaming operation. It'd be just the sort of thing that would buy a guy out of a tight spot with the parole board.

"So what'd you see?" he asked curiously.

"Saw Skid—they picked him up the morning after the heist. He looked pretty rough. I talked to him some, but he didn't tell me about the car—I read that in the paper the next day, after I got out. All he kept saying was he hoped to God that it wasn't going to be Hardcase's courtroom."

"Yeah, that's the guy who sent him up last time. He's crazy. Skid told me."

"Might be . . . seemed that way. Skid goes up for arraignment; he comes back looking like he'd seen his own grave. He wouldn't say much, but it was Hardcase all right."

"_Damn_."

"But wait, it gets weirder. Middle of the night, everybody's down for the count. In walks Hardcase. Next thing you know he's hauling Skid's ass out of there. And _that_," Vinnie leaned back on his stool with a sinister smile, "is the last anybody saw of him."

Teddy shuddered involuntarily. There'd been so many nights, back in Q, where Skid had ranted on about Hardcase—after a while it had become background noise. He knew guys got like that sometimes and you just had to let 'em blow off steam. Now, he wondered, had Skid been stupid enough to say any of that to that judge himself? And if he _had_, and if Hardcase was half as crazy as Skid said he was . . .

Teddy blanched.

"Yeah," Vinnie nodded, "ya gotta wonder."

"A judge can't just kill a guy," Teddy began doubtfully. "There's gotta be hearings, and appeals, and all that."

"All I know is, right after that Hardcase got the boot. His name's not even up on that list they got in the courthouse lobby. Somebody told me that and I went and looked. No kiddin'. _Gone_."

Teddy's eyes went a little wider. Then he shook his head sharply. Both men fell silent. Vinnie drained the bottom of his cup and put it down solidly, then he fetched his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out a couple of small bills.

"Hey, Kitty, I'm covering the tab for Teddy here."

It was an unexpectedly magnanimous gesture, even if the bill was only for a cup of coffee. It reminded Teddy of how little generosity he'd encountered lately. He nodded his thanks to Vinnie, who brushed it off with a quick wave before he turned and was gone.

The last six months had been hard. Not that Teddy expected any stay in prison to be a walk in the park, but the first part of that stretch in San Quentin had been different. He didn't have to give the difference much thought. It'd been having Skid for his cellmate. He hadn't quite believed it at first, but Mark McCormick was one of the few genuinely _nice_ people he'd met in prison.

But the one thing that brought out his dark side was any mention of Hardcase Hardcastle. That he might have gone _anywhere_ with him voluntarily was beyond belief. The whole thing sounded crazy

Still, Teddy was pretty sure that even crazy judges didn't take prisoners out back of Men's Central and whack 'em—not even as a pre-emptive strike—and that meant Skid was out there somewhere--in Hardcase's clutches, it sounded like. He looked up suddenly at Kitty, who was collecting her money and Vinnie's cup.

"You got a telephone directory here?"

00000

It had seemed a little too easy that Hardcastle had a listing—the address and everything. Getting there was more of a challenge. Teddy had been tempted, several times, to just boost a car and be done with it.

He didn't, at least partly because if he did catch up with Skid, and he was driving a stolen vehicle, he'd have a lot of explaining to do. Instead he spent the afternoon navigating the LA County bus system and finally finding himself let off on a fairly unpopulated stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway. He could hear the surf pounding the cliffs below.

_Not a bad place to get rid of a body_. He shivered slightly, not sure who would be more likely to be found wedged in down among the rocks.

He strolled up the highway, trying to look inconspicuous but not furtive. He counted it his good fortune that there didn't seem to be any homes within sight of the road. He walked past the gate, giving it only quick glances from the corner of his eye and keeping his head down and directed toward the road before him. The wrought iron vertical parts did look suspiciously like the bars on a cell.

And though the gates themselves seemed to set the tone for security pretty high, the effect was offset by the arch overhead, which read "Gulls Way"—complete with a couple of cut-out metal silhouettes. Teddy frowned. It didn't seem to go with the picture, having little decorations like that. He'd been more expecting concertina wire and maybe some Dobermans.

Luck again, the perimeter past the entryway was just chain link fence. He ducked into the bushes and made his way well back until he found a spot where he could scale it without being seen by anyone who might be passing by. His feet still hurt, but his curiosity and concern drove that mostly out of his mind. He dropped down, inside the fence, and froze.

There was someone moving around, not even ten feet away from him. He could see an uncertain shape through the foliage and hear an irregular metal snicking sound. Teddy wasn't all that familiar with the lawn and garden side of life, but he suspected someone was cutting away at the very bushes he'd chosen to hide in.

He edged off slowly, even though he knew his back would be up against the fence soon. He was considering additional evasive maneuvers when he heard a familiar voice utter a single sharp curse.

The snicking had stopped, and now he could see through a break in the branches. It was Skid and he was alone, holding his left hand up just below his face and studying it carefully. He was dressed in a sweat-stained, once-white T-shirt, and a scruffy cut-off pair of shorts.

Teddy didn't hesitate for a moment; he was so relieved to see his old buddy alive—even if the guy was stuck out here on Hardcastle's spread. He stepped out from his hiding place and said, "Hey, Skid, how's it going?"

00000

"Nervously" was apparently the answer, though Skid hadn't admitted to that out loud. He'd acted plenty scared, though, not even stopping to say hello until he'd hustled them both into a house a short distance from where they'd been standing. Even then he hadn't seemed satisfied, peering out through the curtained window as if keeping watch for someone.

Of course the someone was Hardcase. Teddy had no doubt about that. Skid had openly admitted that he couldn't risk Teddy being spotted by the judge.

After that, though, things got a little awkward. All Teddy's hinted inquiries about what the deal was here at Gulls Way had been met with stonewalling. All he knew for sure, after twenty minutes of conversation, was that neither man had killed the other, and Skid was on some kind of work-release program the likes of which Teddy had never encountered before.

In fact, far from giving out information, Skid had pretty quickly turned the tables, asking more questions than Quinlan had on Teddy's first visit to his current PO. Except from Skid all that interrogation came off as concern.

It all came to a head when he asked a question Teddy hadn't heard in a very long time.

"You need anything?"

Teddy felt a little twinge of guilt—a fairly rare occurrence for him—as he suddenly saw a way to hang around and get to the bottom of things.

"Maybe," he said hesitantly. "I maybe could use a place to crash—just for a couple of nights."

Skid didn't take much persuading. He was a pal, and a pal never turned down a friend in need. Teddy scuttled his reservations as he waited for Skid to deal with his own. Obviously this Hardcase was a scary guy. Teddy knew he had to stick around, at least till he figured out what was up.

00000

Teddy didn't need an alarm clock anymore. He awoke the next morning to the sound of a basketball hitting a back board, followed by burst of jive from Skid, punctuated by the occasional raspy grumble from his keeper.

He crept over by the window, staying low but maneuvering into a position from which he could survey at least part of the proceedings. Very nearly the first thing he saw was his friend sent sprawling to the ground by what had looked like a foul. Skid was up in a flash, and a couple seconds later had stolen the ball back, turned, and arced a shot that landed, perfectly rimless, in the net.

"Hah! That'll teach you to cheat—21-18, _game_," his friend crowed triumphantly.

Teddy couldn't be precisely sure—Skid's back was toward him—but he was fairly certain that money had changed hands. He turned and sat abruptly against the wall, thinking hard, which is where he still was when Skid came in a moment later. He bounced the ball twice, then must have stowed it somewhere. It sounded like he was taking the stairs two at a time. When he spotted Teddy, his grin faded slightly.

"Oh, you're up." He glanced quickly toward the window and then added, "I hope we didn't wake you."

"Nah," Teddy assured him, clambering to his feet. "I gotta hit the road anyway. Still looking for a job, y'know."

Skid's expression went a little more serious, maybe even a shade guilty. "You eating okay?" He hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the judge's house. "I was going over for breakfast, just gotta take a shower first. Sarah—he's got a housekeeper, her name's Sarah—she made donuts. Powdered sugar. You should taste 'em."

Skid's eyes had gone slightly unfocused, then snapped back a moment later, along with the start of an embarrassed smile. "I could bring you a couple."

"Filching donuts from a judge?"

Skid frowned. "Yeah, maybe a bad idea, but you really should taste 'em . . . Hey, you coming back?"

Teddy had been half tempted to let the poor guy off the hook. He hadn't seen anything all that sinister since he'd arrived. But one game of basketball didn't make it summer, and there was something different about Skid. Teddy thought this whole shuck and jive might just be an act designed to keep his old cellie from worrying about him.

"Yeah, this evening . . . if it's okay?"

What could Skid say? The guy kept his expression neutral and nodded back. Then he added, "Just be careful; don't let him see you, all right?"

00000

A few days passed like that—Skid up early on nearly every one of them, out shooting hoops with the crazy judge. Once there'd been some shouting, but so far nobody'd punched anybody. Every evening, when Teddy returned, the gatehouse had been deserted. Sometimes there were lights on in the front window of the judge's home and once he could see people inside—the two of them. It looked like they were arguing, but he couldn't hear what it was about.

One day he returned early. Hardcastle was nowhere in sight, not even that rattle-trap old truck that the guy apparently drove. But Skid was there, pushing a lawnmower up and back. Teddy had stayed back in the bushes, out of sight, thinking the housekeeper must still be there, keeping an eye on things.

He saw Skid stop at the far end of a swath, over by the low stone wall that bordered the back side of the lawn. It was barely knee-high. He was just standing there, staring out, past the parapet toward the ocean. Nobody came out and hollered at him to get back to work. The housekeeper must've not have been paying attention. Skid didn't spend long like that, though. He looked like he was taking a deep breath, and then he turned and started up the mower again.

Teddy was relieved, because a couple minutes later he heard Hardcastle's truck, and the old guy pulled up the drive. The mystery of the housekeeper was solved. Skid turned off the mower again as he completed this last approach to the house. He opened the passenger door and offered a hand to someone. A small woman in a gray dress with a white collar stepped down.

She inspected the lawn with a sweep of her eyes and then said something that Teddy couldn't hear. Skid threw back his head and laughed, then reached into the back of the truck and pulled out a couple of bags of what looked like groceries. Hardcase already had the other half of the haul. The little group trooped around toward the back of the house, passing out of sight.

Teddy leaned back against a tree. The whole thing just didn't make any sense. He waited a few minute until he was pretty sure the coast was clear, then he sneaked into the gatehouse.

He was still thinking about it three hours later when Skid finally showed up.

"You hungry?" he asked. "Got ya some pot roast here." He had a plate, casually wrapped in aluminum foil. "Sarah makes a mean pot roast."

Teddy lifted one eyebrow.

Skid obviously misunderstood. "Well, yeah, I know it's a little late. I couldn't just get up from dinner and tell her I needed a snack, now, could I?"

"Nah," Teddy hastened to fix it, "it wasn't that. I was just kinda wondering . . ."

"About what?" Skid said warily.

Teddy found himself wondering just what he was wondering about. He finally settled on a given.

"Hardcase put you in prison for driving your own car, right?"

Skid had been reaching forward to deposit the plate on the table. He froze for a second, then lowered it the rest of the way.

"Yeah," he finally said. Just that, nothing else.

Teddy felt his brow furrowing. "And you said you hated him." He cocked his head. "You said it a whole lot, just about every day you were on the inside."

It hadn't really been phrased as a question—more like another given. Skid nodded and sank into the chair across from him.

"So . . ." Teddy drew it out, as though he didn't really want to get to the punch line, "what gives?"

"Whaddaya mean?" Skid muttered. "I just work for the guy. It was a deal, see? It was either work for him or end up back in Q. You'd've done the same thing. _Anybody_ would've," he said with rising insistence.

"Yeah, I suppose, but . . ."

"But what?" Skid said, a little more belligerently.

"But you _hated_ this guy."

Teddy heard the other man sigh. He wasn't sure what it all meant, but he was pretty certain Skid wasn't happy right now. The weird thing was, he _had_ seemed happy earlier, standing out by that beat-up old truck, laughing. Teddy hadn't seen his friend happy all that many times—the morning he'd been due to be processed out from San Quentin. Maybe one or two other times, just sitting there talking, he'd managed to make the guy smile. Usually he didn't even known what he'd said that had struck Skid as so funny. If he had, he would've done it more often.

"Sorry," he said woefully. "It none of my business, I guess."

"It's okay," Skid said. He even flashed a quick imitation of a smile, as if to show he hadn't been bothered at all.

Teddy went along with it, reaching for the plate and pulling the foil off with a flourish. "Mmm." He inhaled deeply.

Skid's smile was back, genuine this time. "You're gonna love it. She puts stuff on it—sherry, she said, and some garlic. Oh, wait." He rooted around in his back pocket and came up with a fork and a paper napkin, handing them over. "You won't need a knife, trust me."

Teddy dug in with enthusiasm, all his doubts temporarily shelved. He still didn't understand the whole thing, but at least he knew one reason why Skid didn't seem to mind being here.

00000

Things settled into a pattern but then, just when Teddy was starting to get used to the strange situation at Gulls Way, the unthinkable happened. He got a job—it was busing tables on the morning shift at a place called "Al's Café" on Sepulveda. He was supposed to start the next day.

He went to Gulls Way straight off, to announce his good fortune. He found his old pal among standing over by the low wall again, further along, this time with a rake in his hands. Teddy looked around. The truck was gone. He didn't know if that included the housekeeper or not, but there were no windows that took in this angle of the yard. Maybe that was why Skid was dogging it.

Teddy strolled over and tapped him on the shoulder. He really should have realized—the startled jerk and the half-spin to face him—though Skid had been out half a year already.

"_Teddy_," he gasped a breath, "don't _do_ that to a guy." He shook his head in exasperation. "'Specially when he's standing right by a cliff."

Teddy looked past the wall and down. "Wow," he said quietly. He hadn't been over on this side of the yard. The view down to the beach and out across the water was breathtaking. "Hey, can you get down there?"

Mark looked back over his shoulder. "Sure," he said. "There's some steps and a path—see? Over there." He pointed them out and then, "Hey, where you going?"

"To take a look. I'll be fast. I promise. Hardcastle's not around, is he?"

"No, but—"

"And Sarah, she's inside, huh?"

"It's her day off, wait a sec—"

"You're all by yourself?" Teddy asked in amazement, already through the gate.

"Yeah, but—"

"Have you ever been down here?" Teddy asked from halfway down the long flight of wooden steps.

"_Teddy_." Skid had almost caught up to him. He snagged him by one elbow. "Wait up." He was frowning. "How come you came back out here in the middle of the day, anyhow?"

"Oh," Teddy slapped his forehead, "I almost forgot. I got a job."

Skid absorbed that for a split second and then grinned. "_Really_?" And then, as if he thought his emphasis might have been misconstrued as astonishment, he added, "That's _great_, man."

"Come on," Teddy coaxed. "Help me celebrate. I'm gonna take a walk on old Hardcase's beach. Whaddya say?"

Skid cast one worried look upward. The estate was no longer visible above the crest of the cliff.

"Okay," he said. "A quick one." He joined Teddy in the walk down. "So what kind of job?"

Teddy beamed sideward at him. "You're looking at a restaurateur, my man . . . I start tomorrow."

They were down on the path—packed hardpan earth that lead downward a short way to the beach. There were patches of sea oats waving in the autumn sun. The sky was an extraordinary cobalt, and the waves were roiling up onto the sand.

Teddy took a deep breath. "It's nice."

"It is," Skid said simply. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "You should see it at night—the stars . . ."

Teddy broke off looking at the endless patterns of the surf and studied him instead. This was Skid—the one guy he'd ever trusted up in Q. Almost like a big brother. He'd never had one of those, so he was just guessing, but he'd thought a brother might be kind of like that, looking out for you and making sure you didn't get yourself in a jam. Maybe giving you a hard time once in a while if you did something stupid.

But somehow it wasn't him—not the same guy at all. Oh, he'd seen him for an instant, up on top of that cliff when he'd touched his shoulder, unannounced. But _this _Skid had lost the knife's edge, honed sharp every night on the memory of injustice.

But the guy responsible for those memories owned this beach. And here was Skid, smiling like he was happy, and admiring the view.

00000

By the next morning he'd made up his mind. Whatever was going on out at Gulls Way, Skid was okay. That was all that really mattered, Teddy decided. He slipped out early, even before anybody had hit the court, and headed into town—his first day on the new job. He decided to stop by his place, first, to see if he'd got any mail. That's when he ran into the landlady, Mrs. Preen, who gave him a suspicious look.

"Where've you been? Ain't seen you all week."

"Visiting a friend," Teddy said politely.

He got a doubtful "Hmmph" from the woman, who was probably imagining just what kind of friends he'd have. Then she scrabbled in her apron pocket and pulled something out—a piece of paper, half crumpled. "Well, somebody called for you yesterday. A Mr. Quinlan. He left a message."

Teddy snatched for it.

She sniffed. "He didn't sound very happy, your Mr. Quinlan." Then she turned away from him and went back to sweeping her porch.

Teddy barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the lines of chicken scratch she'd provided him. It was an invitation—in the parole board sense: come or else. The weird thing was the date. He recalculated, twice. It was for this morning, a Saturday, no mistake.

He sighed and stuffed the note in his own pocket. He'd have just enough time to get there if he hustled. His restaurant career was going to have to wait.

00000

Two hours later he was in a car, heading north again, almost instinctively. The car wasn't his but he hadn't planned on snatching it. His only thought now was to get somewhere safe and ditch it. He rocked forward a little. His stomach still ached from the pounding he'd received at the hands of Quinlan's goons.

A thousand bucks by next week? In his most profitable criminal efforts he'd never cleared a thousand a week, regulai. Hell, thes car he'd snatched probably wasn't even worth two-fifty to a chop shop.

He pulled off into a brushy area, hoping to hide the evidence long enough to get up the road a way. A thousand bucks. Why had he bothered to run? He should have just let those guys pound him and gotten it over with. Quinlan would find him. He had the whole damn system to help him out. Teddy knew he didn't stand a chance.

He climbed out and started walking. He already knew where he was going, even if he wasn't sure exactly why.

00000

An hour after that he was sitting in the gatehouse, with Skid and Hardcase gone. He'd heard Skid's fancy ride heading down the drive. He hadn't had any time to talk to him about his problem. What was he going to say, anyhow? Tell the cops? Quinlan _was_ a cop . . . or practically, anyway.

No, he needed a thousand bucks and he needed it fast. Besides, he wasn't sure Skid would still understand. He'd reminded him, on the stairs a few minutes ago. _Us and them._ Quinlan was a damn _them_ and so was Hardcase. But Skid hadn't sounded too sure.

He made up his mind. He could get that first thousand. That'd buy him a week, and in a week he could figure something else out. A bunch of rich judges playing poker, that'd be an easy thousand right there. He winced a little. Skid'd be there. But Skid wouldn't have to know. A mask. He nodded to himself. And Skid had said the crazy judge had a bunch of guns up in the house. He only needed one and it didn't even have to be loaded. He was on his feet, peering out the window from the side. It didn't look like the housekeeper was back yet. He'd be in and out of there fast.

00000

Two hours after that, he pulled over, out of sight in a quiet alley. He thought he'd lost his pursuers. It was just damn luck, that truck coming between him and Skid's souped-up car. He wasn't sure how he'd managed it. His heart was still pounding. Maybe he was getting too old for this—all that screaming at people and waving guns. He let out a long sigh and rubbed his chest. Too much excitement.

He turned and reached for the bag, pulling it into his lap and opening it to look at his haul. He separated out the money, then assessed the other stuff with a quick, practiced eye. His panic rose with each calculation—the amount remaining to be counted was not going to equal what he needed. Not even five hundred. And he wasn't going to keep Skid's wallet, was he? He flinched. Not that Skid would begrudge him anything if he knew what was at stake.

No way. Not Skid. A friend indeed. He'd give you the shirt off his back. A sport coat, even. That led him to a thought. It wasn't a pretty one, but his ribs and stomach still ached form the pounding he'd taken this morning. His life's goal right now was staying alive.

Skid'd probably take Hardcase back to tell the other judges what had happened. That meant he had at least a little time. He took off, heading west.

00000

Two hours after that he was back in town. He thought he'd pulled it off. The stuff from Hardcastle's place was easily worth the rest of the thousand. But here he was with a stolen car full of stolen goods. He wouldn't say he didn't _trust_ Skid, but he thought he'd better unload this stuff as soon as possible. He wondered if he'd get a discount for making his payment early.

He found a pay phone and dug out his wallet, the card with Quinlan's number was stuck in there with what remained of his last twenty. It took a while to get through to the guy, but the arrangements were finally made.

The goons met him in an alley. He handed over everything, cash and goods. They looked the stuff over with quick disdain. The white guy held something up and sneered "What the hell's this supped to be, Daffy Duck?"

"It's crystal, man. People collect stuff like that. It's valuable."

"Yeah, _right_." The goon chucked it up in the air.

Teddy bolted forward and leaned into the catch, almost knocking into the guy. He was grabbed by his collar and nearly hefted off his feet, but he kept his hands on the duck.

"Chill, man," the black guy said.

The hand that was nearly strangling him eased off, just slightly, then released him and snatched the duck back. "Get outta here," the white guy said.

Teddy retreated a few steps, then turned and hustled back to his car. He didn't feel safe until he heard the engine turn over and he'd slipped it into gear. He watched Quinlan's goons, still pawing over the stash as he pulled away. No thanks, no complements on a job well done or his taste in decorator items. He sighed.

00000

He spent the next couple of hours driving aimlessly. It was safer now that it had gotten dark—less chance of being picked up, he figured. He also figured the smartest thing for him to do was to start heading east. He still had the gun he'd picked up in Hardcase's place. A big sucker, too, just like Dirty Harry would use. Hell, like Harry said, it didn't even need to be loaded to make a guy feel lucky. And there it had been, lying in a box on the kitchen counter, like a Christmas present or something. He thought if he left town now, he'd be in Barstow by midnight—hit a gas station, pocket some traveling money, and kiss California good-bye. No more parole and no more parole officer. He'd go back to Jersey and start fresh, maybe open a pizza wash. They liked pizza in Jersey. Clean clothes, too.

This train of thought ought to have left a smile on his face. As plans went, it had the makings of success. Only somehow he'd made two left turns in a row and was now heading west again. He was frowning, too. The thing that seemed to be bothering him the most was what he'd done after he'd left the poker game—burgling Skid's place.

This, he knew, was stupid. That wasn't Skid's stuff. It all belonged to that crazy judge, just like the gun. Hell, he was doing Skid a favor, exacting a little revenge for what Hardcase had done to him in the first place.

Only it didn't feel that way. It felt like he'd run out on a friend.

_You need anything?_

The recollection jarred him. Nobody else had asked him that, not in a long time, maybe not ever. He thought about it for another mile or so, and then he turned right, heading north.

00000

Just a note, he thought. That was the least he could do—and maybe the most, too, when he found Skid's place dark and empty. Well, he was a little responsible for the empty part, but, anyway, Skid was nowhere around. Teddy'd been scrabbling around in the dark, only risking a flashlight beam to look for a pencil and a piece of paper, when the door below opened.

Hardcase had a shotgun that made the stolen revolver look like a toy and, besides, he'd left that weapon in the car. Teddy came down the stairs slowly. He had a lot of experience dealing with the mentally unstable and he knew it was important to stay calm and reassuring. He tried to explain why he'd come back.

The crazy judge wasn't buying it. Worse still, he said Skid was in jail on account of the robbery. Maybe this was what his subconscious had been trying to tell him with all those left turns. Maybe he'd realized all along that he'd left his pal hanging out to dry. The weird thing was, Hardcase seemed almost as upset about it as he was.

Teddy made the offer before he even had time to think about it. Copping to the robber and burglary would spring Skid.

What he wouldn't do was implicate his PO. That wouldn't help Skid at all, but Teddy knew he wouldn't last a day in the joint if somebody like Quinlan wanted him dead.

Hardcastle made some phone calls, then hauled him to an office. It was four in the morning. Teddy was amazed. He'd managed to scrounge up a technician and everything. That Gault guy was there too, looking pretty snarly, a lot like that stuffed tiger he had at home.

"Let's get on with it," Gault grumbled.

The technician hooked him up and started asking the questions—all basic stuff. He must've been going too slow for Hardcase, who stepped in and started firing off more damning requests for details. It didn't take long, especially since Teddy was more than willing. He'd gone over everything once, and confirmed that Skid had had nothing to do with the plan.

Hardcase turned to the other judge and said, "There, you satisfied?"

Gault didn't seem happy, but he finally nodded. Teddy felt the breath he'd been holding go out of him in a rush and the needle on the grid danced wildly. Gault was on his feet, turning toward the door.

"I'll ask them to drop the charges and draw up the new warrant."

"Wait a sec." Hardcastle had him by one elbow and was accompanying him through the door. He was gone for a few minutes and when he returned, he was alone.

Teddy was still hooked up to the machine. It didn't seem as if anyone had been looking at the readings but he figured he'd been pretty convincing all on his own. Now Hardcase was giving him a penetrating stare.

"Just a couple more questions, sport."

Teddy smiled wanly, glanced over at the technician, then back at the crazy judge. "Do I need my lawyer?"

"Won't help," Hardcase said dryly. "You already confessed to enough to get you eight years, minimum."

Teddy swallowed hard. There wasn't enough spit to even make that worthwhile. He figured the next round would be about Quinlan. He was hoping his eight years wouldn't turn into a death sentence. He was also hoping all those prison shrinks had been right about his pathological lying skills. But there was no point to being uncooperative. He nodded his acquiescence.

"Okay," the judge's tone had gone worryingly calm, "exactly why'd you come back tonight?

Teddy felt his jaw drop. He'd been taken by surprise twice in one night by this guy. He pulled his chin back up and shifted in his chair a little. The technician frowned.

"It was like I said, Judge. Skid's my friend and I owed him an explanation."

"So, what the hell was the explanation going to be?"

That made it three times now, the surprise thing. Teddy hesitated, tried to force a smile, and said, "I'm a thief. I steal things. It's what I do. I thought I already told you that, Judge."

"That's a lousy explanation, if you ask me," Hardcase groused.

All Teddy could do was shrug. It wasn't an answer; therefore it couldn't be a lie. The judge glared at him but looked like he was about ready to throw in the towel, so the last question seemed to come as a surprise to both of them.

"Why'd you agree to this—to turning yourself in?"

It was a perfectly innocent question, and it seemed to Teddy the being repeatedly taken by surprise was hell on the lying reflexes.

"Skid," he finally said, "musta saved my life a couple of time in the joint. I dunno, he's just does stuff like that . . . anything for a friend, ya know?"

The judge was looking at him steadily, but said nothing to indicate he either understood or disagreed.

Teddy sighed. "Well, maybe I figured it was my turn. It's not exactly the same, I know, on account of it was me that got him in trouble in the first place, but at least I'll know I did the right thing. Hey, maybe I caught it from him."

"Maybe," the judge said. He glanced down at his watch and then jerked his head at the apparatus. "Looks like we're done here, Steve."

The technician got to his feet and started unfastening things. Teddy felt himself relax slightly as the strap was unfastened from his chest. He knew it was all only a temporary reprieve. Next he'd have to make good on his promise. Eight years.

He was free of all the wires, now, and Hardcase was gesturing him to follow. There weren't any cops in the hallway but Teddy was starting to realize that this guy didn't really need backup. He followed the man docilely enough. Exiting the building, onto the pre-dawn street, he thought wistfully that he ought to have been east of Vegas by now, maybe thinking about stopping at a pancake place.

"We gonna go get Skid?" he asked cautiously.

"_Us_, no," Hardcastle rumbled. "And if you think I'm leaving you alone for even one minute, then you're outta luck." He frowned at the pinkening sky to the east. "Gault said he'd get right on it, but it'll take a little while to push the papers through. McCormick should be home this morning. Don't worry; he'll have a ride."

Teddy climbed into the judge's truck, now staring openly at the man. It was pretty obvious that they weren't going to Men's Central, and equally obvious why. This was bad. The longer he stayed out, the worse it would look to Quinlan when Hardcase finally gave up on shaking anything else out of him and ran him in.

The drive back was quiet, partly because Teddy was tired. It'd been a long Saturday and a crime spree could really take it out of a guy. He was also aware that the judge was irritated. This probably wouldn't be a good time to ask if they could stop at a hash joint.

The sun was up by the time they arrived at the estate. The woman in the gray dress met them at the front door, looking worried.

"He did what he said he'd do, Sarah. And Gault heard it all."

"He's withdrawing the charges?"

"He said he would."

"This morning?"

"Yup, first thing."

"Good," said Sarah with a sharp nod of her chin. "I'll make breakfast."

They followed her into the house and down the hall to the kitchen. There were already enticing smells and, as they entered the kitchen, Teddy encountered the source—a plate of donuts, still warm and already dipped in powdered sugar.

Hardcastle reached first but hadn't completed the grab before Sarah intercepted him with a stern look.

"_Those_ are for Mark."

Hardcase frowned. "_Eight _of 'em?"

"They're small. He likes them that way. I really think it's just an excuse to eat confectioner's sugar," she said with a slight air of disapproval. "Besides, you like the cinnamon ones better, and that's the next batch."

"I like powdered sugar," Teddy said wistfully.

The temperature in the kitchen dropped precipitously, despite the still hot oil in the frying pan. Teddy shut his mouth firmly.

00000

In the end he got eggs, and bacon, and two cinnamon sugar donuts. He thought even if he spent the next eight years eating lumpy potatoes and spam, he'd remember those donuts with reverence.

He noticed Hardcase checking his watch a couple of times. The judge finally gave up on his breakfast and returned to the front of the house, to a room off to the side of the hallway. Teddy followed him. Hardcastle had sat down in a chair behind the large desk, but he spent most of the time swiveled toward the window, keeping a very obvious watch.

It wasn't long, though, before they heard the sound of a car coming up the drive. The judge took one look and was back on his feet. Teddy swallowed anxiously. It was a cop cruiser pulling up in front of the house. He followed Hardcastle out, then stepped past him to get a better look.

He saw Skid climbing out of the front seat of the car and it suddenly all seemed worth it. He felt like a hero, even if he had been responsible for the bad part as well as the good.

Skid wasn't looking too happy about needing to be rescued. Teddy felt nervous, and did what he always did when that happened. He talked. But Skid wasn't listening. He was talking about Quinlan and telling him what he didn't want to hear.

Skid was made of the right stuff. Teddy wasn't. He knew that now, and he knew he never would be. Guys like Skid—and Hardcase, too—when something was wrong they tried to fix it. Maybe they didn't always win, but they'd go down fighting.

Now Skid was telling him he had to grow up and take a stand. Eight years in a cell seemed easy compared to that. But this was Skid, and he believed in Hardcase, and both of them said that if he helped them, they could nail Quinlan and his goons.

He'd never understand it later on, but he suddenly said yes, and he meant it.

00000

They got him. Well, Skid and Hardcase got him. Teddy ended up with a lump on the back of his head and a king-size headache. But Quinlan was in the lock-up and there was even a recording of it all, so maybe it was worth getting whacked.

Hardcase had said he'd get Teddy a new PO, and he'd make sure it wasn't anybody who'd been pals with Quinlan. And for tonight at least he was in the gatehouse, on the sofa. The place still looked a little bare, but he'd at least helped Skid straighten up some before they'd left for the meet.

He heard the door opening.

"Hey," it was Skid, speaking quietly, "you awake?"

"Yeah, just thinking."

Skid stepped into the room and perched himself against the chair. "Hmm, don't hurt yourself."

Teddy made a face.

"Brought you a ham sandwich, but don't eat it if you feel like puking."

Teddy nodded carefully, and then sat up. "Sounds like good advice."

"It's the voice of experience. Ham and concussions—bad combination. But we were out of donuts. Oh," he handed something else over, plaid-colored, squat, "it's an ice-bag. It'll keep the swelling down."

Teddy took it and reached up stiffly to put it where it would do the most good. Skid was flexing and unflexing his hand experimentally.

"How'd that happen?" Teddy pointed to the swollen knuckles. He was still a little vague on the details after he'd ended up on the floor of the warehouse.

"I punched Quinlan," Skid said. "Damn, I punched a State of California PO." He flashed a grin and shook his head in disbelief. "This job has its perks."

"I think maybe you busted something."

"Nah," Skid made a fist again, only wincing slightly. "Look, it still works."

"Thanks, though," Teddy said sincerely.

Skid shrugged almost shyly. "It's what he does. He said it'd be guys that walked out of his court on technicalities—"

"I didn't know there _were_ any of those."

"Yeah," Skid said, "about 200 of them, and most of them went right on committing crimes. My friend Flip, I told you about him, didn't I?"

"A few times, yeah."

"He was killed last month, by a guy who walked out of someone else's courtroom after another murder. You see . . .?"

Teddy did, sort of, but Skid's vision was obviously better by far.

"Only," Skid frowned as though he'd just realized something, "I guess it's not gonna be just his files, _his_ cases."

"And you get to punch a PO once in a while," Teddy said cheerfully.

"Get some sleep," Skid said. "Hardcase says I gotta wake you up every couple of hours and make sure you aren't any goofier than usual."

"Hah." Teddy leaned back on the sofa again, carefully avoiding the lumpier side of his head. "You don't have to bother. I got a hard head."

"It's okay." Skid waved his unswollen hand as he trudged up the steps to bed. "Anything," he yawned, "anything for a friend."


End file.
